When the Power Goes Out

All of a sudden it ended. But at that same time, it started. He died the way you fell in love, slowly, then all at once. That's what he thought anyway. What if, he thought, what if every time you breathe out that's a piece of your life you breathe out, what if every time you breathe out you die a little more, and when it all ends, but maybe just begins, when death hits, what if that last breath is all of the life you had left, all escaping. He didn't expect it to be so soon.

All of a sudden it ended. It wasn't a cliché, he didn't see 'the light', or his life flash before his eyes, it was just over. And then it was on again. It was like when there is a power cut, which lasts for twelve seconds. Suddenly everything goes off, and you don't know what is going on, by second ten you have realised, the power is off, and then all of a sudden everything comes back. It's just like before. It's like nothing has changed. But then you realise that everything has changed.

All of a sudden it started again. He was stood where he had been before it had ended, but this time alone. Before it had ended he had been surrounded by people, the adrenaline rush of the battle filling his blood, his heart pumping fast. His rifle had been in his hands, aimed at the enemy trench as the Jerrys did the same to them, the Tommys. His best friend had winked at him, a twinkle in his eye, before they climbed out of their trench, a smile on his face. That was the thing he thought of, his best friend and his smile, before he felt something collide with him. He knew the force would blow him into the air, but it was over before his feet left the ground.

All of a sudden it started again. His best friend was not there, neither was his rifle, or the enemy, or anyone else. He shut his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again he saw his best friend. His best friend and himself. He thought he must have been dreaming. The two boys he saw were boys, and they were boys, he had known his best friend almost since birth, and they had been best friends since then as well. His best friend was colouring something in, and asked him what colour he should make it. His response was immediate. 'Seven'. The two boys slowly looked at each other, and then burst out laughing. And then the scene faded. And a short man took its place. The man was not a memory, or a dream. He wore a black suit, a monocle on his left eye, looking down at a silver pocket watch held in his right hand.

'Come with me.' were the only words the man said at first.

'Come with me.' his voice was nasally yet grave, he sounded bored, as if this was a menial task he had done many times before.

'Who- who are you?' his voice shook.

The man sighed and repeated the three words. He didn't move. The man stared at him. He stared back. The man sighed again, but this time answered.

'Death. Come with me.'

'But-' He started, but was interrupted.

'Come with me and all shall be answered.'

This time he moved, and as soon as he took a step the empty battlefield became a dark scene. He couldn't see anything, but then a light appeared in the distance. The light seemed to get bigger, or was it just closer? He looked to the man, Death, for answers, but Death stared straight ahead.

'You are dead. This is your final destination. This is the River Styx, only the dead shall cross.' The man seemed to know the questions he hadn't asked, but he looked dead ahead whilst he spoke. 'It's always sad to see the young here; it's the aspect of my job I hate the most.'

He looked at his feet, and shut his eyes again. It's a dream. A dream. You'll wake up tomorrow and you'll be with him, your best friend, it's all a dream- a nightmare. He knew it wasn't true, but how he wished it was.

Then the light was right in front of him, and he saw it was a boat. In the dim light provided he saw a sign, written in weird symbols that he didn't know. But he did know them, and he knew what the sign said. 'The Styx Toll is one Obulus or Danake.' He looked to the little man.

'I don't have either of them.'

'Check your pocket.'

A weight dropped in the left breast pocket of his jacket. He reached for it, and found a small, misshapen, ovular, metal object. He went to draw his hand away, but his hand brushed some paper. He knew it was the photograph, and he clenched his jaw as he pulled it out.

The photograph was of him and his best friend, on that Christmas, where he had decided that 'Seven' was a colour. His nickname had been Seven ever since, but he was only called that by his best friend. He felt a pang in his heart for his best friend, still going on the battle field, and he hoped that he would stay strong, and become twice the man he was because of it. He hoped he would take his time, and not arrive here too soon. His best friend had the journey to make for both of them, if the destination was here and he had made his arrival now. He felt a tear run down his cheek, and then a shoulder barge into his. What had previously seemed to be empty space was now full of other people who had arrived, their journey was over too, and they were bustling to make it onto the boat on which the light was. With a look around him he made his way to the boat. Everyone else was on it, but he wasn't. He stopped, and turned to the man, the question on his tongue, not wanting the answer in his ears, but needing to know. His best friend was all he thought of, and his best friend was the question. He didn't say anything, but the man heard him still, and gave him his answer.

'He will arrive, you will see him again. He will arrive, in time.'